


As the Sun Will Rise

by Callali



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, It's Hard to Tag When You Don't Know Where You're Going, Slow Build, The Quiet Isle, Very Brief Mentions of Past Trauma, winter is coming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-07 15:19:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7719814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callali/pseuds/Callali
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But somehow, she thought it might be him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sansa I

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, pure escapism (with a literal escape). I am not a planner. I write short chapters. Hope you enjoy.

A healer came to the Vale, and he said he could help Lord Robert. His shaking spells had only increased, and Alayne had to admit her own fault in the matter. The boy had had too many drops from a maester’s vial and not enough tutelage and discipline. Some of that was not her fault, but some of it was. The part where she would rather ease him into sleep than put up with him in her bed. The part where some days she was tired of it and wore thin and used sharp tones with him. For those times, Alayne blamed herself. He was, after all, a motherless and fatherless boy, who surely suffered beyond words at the hands of his tormentor, his illness. It was not fair for Alayne to neglect him, but sometimes she did. Bastard girls have many sins to atone for.

 

            A healer came to the Vale, and something in Alayne shifted and squirmed. There was something about him that she needed to figure out, something off, a twinge of sickly-sweet in a cup of milk. For a while, she had made attempts at plots and designs, had applied herself to knowing people in the worst of ways, in ways she could influence them. It left her with an ache at the base of her skull and filled her nights with terrors. She could sip from that cup if she had to, but the drink turned her stomach and muddled her mind. A minty breath behind her spoke of chaos and power _._ A long-ago girl whispered songs and good things into her ear, and told her that plotting was not living, and controlling others was against nature. Something raspy scratched her neck and whispered of survival, and nothing more.

 

            A healer came to the Vale, and he was not alone. It took Alayne some time to notice the healer’s companion, as he had a habit of blending in with shadows and walls, of disappearing at will. Alayne did not know anyone who could do that; Sansa did. Sansa, forever holding her breath under lavender bath water, feeling her lungs prickle and her skin wrinkle, lunged to the surface. Her first breath in months or years was cold, and smelled of snow and steel. Sansa did not lie to herself: she knew this man. She thought she knew his purpose. _To me,_ she thought, unbidden. The tall brother could not hear her as Lady once could, and so she waited for him to find her. He had found her many times before.

 

            Robert was a sickly boy; his sickliness kept her from her chambers many nights. Alayne sat with him as the kindly Elder Brother observed him, spoke to him, fed him a bit of this or that. Sometimes Robert whined, and she gently reproached him. Her guilt had simmered down into a determination to do better, be better. He was so alone, after all. The healer spoke to her on occasion. If she had not been so thoroughly sized up in a past life, she might not know what it looked like. This man was gentle in his prodding, but he was shrewd. Sansa became convinced that he knew exactly who she was, and that whatever his plans were, they did not revolve around Sweetrobin. Sansa had been rescued before, and knew better than to dive headlong into fantasies about being rescued again. But she felt the chill in the air and saw the signs of autumn, and knew that she could not stay in the Vale for a years-long winter. What emerged after the season was over would not be Sansa at all: it would be something sharper, sadder, more Petyr-shaped from all his molding and molesting. Sansa thought of the space between her ribs, what felt right. She thought of the crinkles around her father’s eyes when he smiled, the shape of her mother’s elegant fingers, her brothers and their smiles and Arya and her spirit. No, she could not allow herself to be snuffed out. She looked this healer in the eye. _I cannot stay,_ she thought. Her eyes begged him to understand. Perhaps he did. Sansa thought to herself that it was rather like sending a note in a bottle in the sea. There was no knowing what would happen, no guarantee. None at all.

 

            On her way back to her chambers one night, she thought she saw movement in a dark alcove. She froze in place before she could stop herself. It was unwise. It could be anyone, anyone with any sort of intentions. It could be a draft, or her imagination. But somehow, she thought it might be him. She wondered why he had not sought her out yet. She wondered if he might still be angry. Angry that she hadn’t left with him, or just angry in his own way, still. It might be that he felt guilty, or unsure. Sansa was sure that if he had come all this way, he had a purpose. And if he had a purpose, he should be out with it. She felt that she was running out of time. She looked up and peered into the alcove. She almost expected to see the glint of eyes in the darkness. For a moment, she stood still in the corridor, waiting. Then, when she became afraid, and started to feel foolish, she lowered her head and returned to her bed. The furs were warm, and Sansa felt good again.

 

            Before she slept, she mused vaguely that if he were here, then he couldn’t be dead. If the rumors of his death had been lies, then the rest were surely lies as well. But Sansa had known that. He was not like his brother. And now he was here, she knew, and he might take her away. She dismissed the hope that tugged at her. She was not a child.

 

            A little bird, perhaps…

 

            Sansa slept, and dreamed of fire.


	2. Sansa II

Lord Robert made small improvements. At the very least, his disintegration came to a halt. He and the older man talked for hours every day, and Sansa had to admit that she was relieved. Despite this Elder Brother’s vague smell of duplicity, he was a talented healer just as he said. Regardless of whether or not he was actually here for Sweetrobin, he was kind to the boy. For the first few days, Sansa spent all of her time in the chamber with them. After that, pleased with the healer’s ministrations and otherwise distracted, she took to wandering around the castle as she partially saw to her duties. Partially, because part of her was lately intent on avoiding Littlefinger, and Petyr too. Partially, because the tall brother had still not come to her. She was a doe in a clearing, watching the treeline for shadowcats.

 

            One night, Alayne could no longer avoid her father. Sansa could no longer avoid her captor. He grew bold, this gaoler of hers. There were circles within circles when it came to this; it made her head swim. This man was both the rescuer and the one she needed rescuing from. He was father, friend, enemy. He was trying very hard to be her lover, and yet, he whispered of her mother into her neck. Sansa sometimes did not know how to bide her time. He could be fooled, but it was a matter of determining what he was in the mood for. If she slipped, he could be placated with a chaste kiss, which he would readily turn into more. She had not feared him, then she had feared him, and now she tolerated him. It was hard to be afraid when he made her so very confused and sad and disgusted in turns. She pictured herself ruling by his side. She pictured herself as the feather at the end of a cat’s toy. She could not follow that path; its destination was ruin.

 

            She left his company confused and addled, and with the feeling that she wanted a long bath. Sansa thought of her lady mother. They had something more in common, now: this man’s unwanted attentions, his desperate grasping.

 

            For a moment, Sansa had forgotten about the healer’s companion. She had forgotten all of her twilight wanderings with the intent of being confronted by a hulking shadow. She was simply going back to her chambers, hastily and without a clear thought in her head. That was how it always went: stop looking for a lost object, and it will be found.

 

            She had forgotten all about Sandor Clegane, and so he appeared.

 

            Strong fingers grasped her arm, pulling her back into a dimly-lit stairwell. She stumbled, but there was no chance of her falling, because he did not want her to. With her back to the wall, she looked at him. Peered into his eyes as she had peered into the alcove. No scarf could fool her. It did not hide everything, just the worst of it.

 

            His hand still held her arm from when she had almost fallen. This clandestine encounter in a stairwell was jarring, but only because it was so familiar, like a recurring dream. Sansa truly hoped that Cersei had never known, that the spider had never known. Those who had looked for everything had not thought to look for this.

 

            “I am glad you’re not dead,” she chirped, craning her neck to see him better. It was prettily spoken, but the barest of truths.

 

            For a moment, he said nothing, and Sansa was afraid. She remembered that she knew nothing of him, could not possibly know why he was here, or what he wanted. His gripped on her arm relaxed. He stepped back.

 

            “Why are you here?” she asked.

 

            The scarf slipped. She did not flinch. If anything, she was relieved. She had missed his ugliness, even if it was worse than she remembered. She had grown tired of glittering things.

 

            “Do you want to leave?” His eyes pinned her, desperate, oddly soft.

 

            _I could keep you safe._ She nodded.

 

            “Then pack your things, girl. Warm things. Don’t tell anyone.”

 

            Once safely in her chambers, Sansa flew. She had been waiting for this. Everything was laid out in easily-accessible places. Her heaviest cloak and her boots were wrapped together in the bottom of her wardrobe. She had been wearing two shifts and two pairs of stockings for a week. Her comb, the hairnet, anything of any slight value was tied in a handkerchief and stuffed in the bottom of her small bag. She packed light.

 

            She thought of Sweetrobin, but dared not visit him. It would be unusual for her to leave her chambers once she retired. He would remember her fondly, she knew. Once day she might reveal herself and make an ally of him, if they both lived, and Petyr did not.

 

            Sandor Clegane appeared beside her. She opened her bag to let him see what she had packed. He nodded once, apparently pleased. He fixed his eyes on hers. For a moment, Sansa was reminded of the Blackwater. He had looked at her so fixedly, so desperately then, too. But he was not drunk, even if he was entirely too close. His closeness did not unnerve her; it was her acceptance of his closeness that struck her as unjustified. There was not time to think about it. There would surely be time later, after they had fled. If the gods were good. Perhaps the gods had not forgotten about her.

 

            “Little bird, I have to know,” he said. “Before we leave and there’s no going back.” He seemed tense, almost angry again. He pinched her chin, brought her eyes back up from the ground. “Do you want me to kill him?”

 

            Every thought in Sansa’s mind sputtered and went out before it could complete itself. _Him,_ meaning Littlefinger. Petyr Baelish. _Yes,_ something inside her seemed to say, _let it be over._ Had she not secretly thought of this before? Had she not wished in the darkest corner of her soul for all of her captors to suffer, to die? Had Littlefinger not taken enough liberties? The thought of him being sliced in two, and never in a thousand years knowing, never being prepared, was intoxicating. But Sansa was not a killer, even if the man before her was. She could not give the word, not now. She shook her head. Her words were choked.

 

            “I— I cannot—”

 

            He seemed almost disappointed, but he was loyal, and would not disobey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is so nice to hear from all of you again. :) Stay tuned.


	3. Sansa III

They fled in the night. To Sansa’s surprise, they left the Elder Brother behind. She wanted to ask about it, but the way was treacherous. They did not dare take their attention from the path. They did not speak all down the mountain. The autumn weather that had seemed mild before now whipped and whirred around them, toying with their clothing and beckoning them off the edge. Sansa was not afraid. She had made this journey before, and with a sick child in tow. Sandor did not seem afraid, either. Only careful. They made very poor time due to their combined inexperience and caution, yet time seemed suspended. It seemed to Sansa that nothing at the peak nor at the ground could harm her at the moment, and so she was safe. Safe as a Stark could be.

 

            Sansa mostly stared ahead at his shoulders and wondered about where he had been.

 

            The last she had seen of him had been the night the Blackwater burned. He had been so terribly out of his mind that she had worried that he never made it out of the city alive. After all, he was reeling drunk, everything was burning, and he had left his key to freedom on her floor. The next she had heard of him had been Saltpans, but she never believed that, not even for a moment. Any fool could don a helm, and his had certainly been conspicuous. Where had he been? What had he been doing? It was difficult to see him in any other way than he had been: silent, ever-present, watching. A guard dog to a bad-tempered and sick-minded boy-king. Did he find work somewhere? Had he been with the brothers all this time? Did he know about his own brother’s death?

 

            Too late, it occurred to Sansa to wonder where they might be going.

 

            After careful consideration, it struck her that it did not matter. It did not matter even one tiny little bit. She was wanted the world over, for countless reasons. Petyr Baelish had made Sansa Stark disappear until she was only a taunt at the bottom of Queen Cersei’s wine goblet. Perhaps Alayne would disappear as well. Along with the man who did not burn Saltpans, and was not a knight.

 

            When the terrain flattened, they picked up pace. There was another man in brown robes waiting for them at the bottom of the mountain. They exchanged their mules for two horses and food. They still had not spoken more than a few words to each other since the night before. Sansa wondered how many men in brown robes had come together to steal her from the Eyrie. If they were septons at all, they were no ordinary ones. She had more questions to tuck away for later.

 

            When Sandor finally stopped, it was night again. They were in a forest. Boulders and crags jutted out every which way, and all was dark and mossy. It was warmer than it had been on the mountain. Sansa was more tired than she had ever been, both from the lack of sleep and the danger, but it was a content sort of tired. The forest was putting her in an odd mood. She thought she might like to lie down on the forest floor and never leave, learn birdsong and forget she was a person. Dark and deep places lent themselves to such thoughts.

 

            “Little bird?” came a rasp, from somewhere near her hip. She was still on her horse. He had dismounted some time ago.

 

            “Hm?” she said. She was so very tired.

 

            He lifted her by her waist, caught her when her legs betrayed her. “Just over here,” he said, as she stumbled over the uneven ground. Then he stopped her. “Down,” he said, as though she were a horse. She thought she might giggle, but no sound came out of her throat. She went down like a horse, and found herself in an actual burrow, lined with cloaks and gods knew what else. She was truly a little animal on this night.

 

            She was too tired to think of eating or drinking, or taking off her boots. The forest reminded her of the Godswood at Winterfell, deep and hushed. She felt like a swaddled babe. She fell asleep listening to the rustling of the horses and the rumbling of the man who whispered to them.

 

            When Sansa woke, it was daylight. Her body felt molded to her burrow, and she did not ever wish to leave. She _hmmed_ a sigh of contentment before remembering where she was, who she was with. That she had stolen away in the night and traveled many hours since then. When she sat up, he was sitting on a rock not far away, staring at her.

 

Sansa hoped she had not been snoring, or something similarly unpleasant.

 

“Good morning, my—” she said. But it sounded like a garbled, sleepy mess, and also he was not a lord. So she rubbed her eyes and tried again. “Good morning, Sandor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up, Sandor's POV.


	4. Sandor I

It took him days to find her, days before he followed the plan they had made. It was his own fault. His hatred for the _Lord Protector_ got the best of him.

 

            Sansa Stark’s hair was brown. She called him father.

 

            If he went to her, he would frighten her. Again. If he saw Littlefinger, that would be a frightful thing indeed. So he sat in the cramped room that housed their cots and bags, and did little else.

 

            “What’s the matter with you?” the Elder Brother asked, not in the least bit surprised. A sound of annoyance, warning. He knew very well what was the matter. “Yes, well, that may be for the best,” he continued. “Take a while. Calm yourself. I have reason to believe she will go willingly, and happily. She looks at me as though begging for help. A day or two will not change anything.”

 

            Willingly, and happily. With someone else, maybe. In this, Sandor’s only requirement was cooperation. She could be as unhappy about it as she wanted to be, as long as she bloody agreed.

 

            The little bird would flit through the corridors and halls at night. Some things did not change. He would catch a glimpse here or there; he could not stay where anyone might take much notice of him. The idea was that nobody would notice that the Elder Brother had brought two brothers with him, both tall, one gone. One night, she looked at him. Straight as an arrow. Then she turned away. Sandor did not know what to make of that. Another two days.

 

            He sat on his cot, a craven. Unpacked and packed.

 

            The Elder Brother returned, and laughed at him. “This must be done,” he said. “For all of the reasons you spoke of, and more. If you hesitate because it’s you doing the rescuing, I only have one question. Who are you to presume what Sansa Stark might think? I have watched her. The gods themselves would not know what was in her head unless she wished to tell them.”

 

            And so he stole her.

 

            As the Elder Brother had said, she went willingly. Happily, Sandor was no judge of that. She did not smile, but she packed very well and did whatever he told her to do. Might be she was at least ready, if not happy.

 

            It happened quickly. Not one part of it seemed real.

 

            Now she slept. He had woken up before first light. Sleeping outdoors, daybreak was a creeping thing. The sky got brighter slowly. Far too slowly. She hummed little noises, and he nearly jumped out of his skin every time. He did not think of what she might sound like making other noises. He told himself he would not. But she was a woman, with all a woman’s ways, and Sandor was a fool.

 

            The forest woke, and did not care about a single one of his woes.

 

            Well after dawn, she sat up, mumbled something. “Good morning, Sandor,” she said. Seven buggering hells. He stared at her like an ugly fish.

 

            “Hungry?” he asked.

 

            “Yes,” she said, peering at his hands from where she sat on her bedroll. Hard bread, hard cheese, two-bite apples, water. He didn’t know what she wanted. Gave her the whole damn bag. Sat there chewing on his hard bread forever.

 

            She ate like a bird, too. Turned a two-bite apple into a meal, dabbed at her lips with a cloth she got from nowhere.

 

            “Where are we going?” she asked when she was finished. Not ‘ _Where are you taking me?’_

 

            “I shouldn’t tell you that. If we get caught you should say that I took you, and you never wanted to go. They’ll kill me and you can start over.” She frowned.

 

            “I wouldn’t do that,” she said. “But if I wanted to, I could, even if I knew all the plans.”

 

            “Are you any better at lying?” he asked.

 

            “No, not at all,” she said. “I’m only better at knowing what someone wants to hear. If they want to believe you, they will.” He nodded. It was true enough. And it would work for her, if she needed to use it. The world believed he was monster, and so a monster he would be.

 

            “We are going back to the Quiet Isle,” he said. “Elder Brother—the healer will be there. He’ll get there first. We’ll take longer, in case someone shows up at the Isle looking for you. Then it depends on where you want to go.”

 

            “We will be staying in the mountains for a time?” she asked. She made it sound like they’d be staying at an inn.

 

            “If we can avoid the clans,” he said.

 

            “Won’t there be men looking for us?”

 

            “Littlefinger will want you back, yes. But he can’t raise an army for a bastard girl, and he can’t reveal Sansa Stark without buggering his plans. Elder Brother and the others will leave soon, maybe look suspicious while they’re at it. They might go to the Isle to look for you, but you won’t be there yet.” He recited the plan as he had recited it to himself, trying to convince himself she would be safe. He glanced up from the crust of bread. She looked… tearful. “He won’t hurt the lordling, your cousin. That part’s true enough.” She nodded, distant.

 

            “Could you say it again? My name?” she near-whispered.

 

            “Sansa,” he said. “Sansa Stark.” _Little bird._ He knew about names, what they meant. She was not a Lannister or a Stone, and he was not a Hound.

 

            She smiled.

He decided to wait to tell her everything. Wait until they got back to the Quiet Isle, where she could have a bath and a hut and the Elder Brother could stick her back together if she shook apart. He remembered what she was like after her father died. Sandor was not good for such things. He was good for very little, in truth.

 

            They moved. Not too quickly, just a little bit every day. No need to sit down somewhere and wait for someone to find them. The little bird chirped happily behind him most of the day. She talked about the trees and moss and rocks and colors like she’d never been outside before. Maybe she hadn’t, at least not like this. Her brothers would have gone hunting and riding in the woods. Not her. For some reason, he wasn’t annoyed. It wasn’t like other people talking. Other people mostly talked to themselves or each other, and Sandor was just around. Not the little bird. She would ask him things.

 

            She would fall into silence now and then. Sandor didn’t look much, but he didn’t have to. He felt the air behind him get heavy somehow. If he looked back, she would be pale and quiet. He didn’t know what to do about it. Tried to think of what he did when the little sister got the same way. He hadn’t done anything; he was too busy with getting himself angry, drunk, angry-drunk. He didn’t do anything about it now because he was too busy with not knowing what to say.

 

            There was something missing from him, something that other people had. Whatever that thing was, it came with words he didn’t know.

 

            They found a little stream flowing between some rocks. It was as good a place as any. He watered the horses, filled the skins. The little bird surveyed her nesting place.

 

            “Would you tell me about something?” she asked. “I’m always the one talking.” _Chirp, chirp._

            “What do you want me to tell you about?” he said.

 

            “Anything at all.” He thought on that for a moment. There were things he knew about, then there were things she would like, and the two did not often meet.  He finished fishing the bag of food out of the saddlebag. Hoped she would leave him alone. “Some other time, maybe?” she asked. He nodded. Actually felt bad about it. “Very well,” she sighed, rolling rocks away with the toe of her boot. After a while she stopped, looked up at him with her arms crossed like she was cold. “Shall I keep talking, then?”

 

            “Talk all you like,” he said, and meant it. _Talk until the Wall melts._

No more trees and rocks. She told him about her earliest memories: sitting on her father’s lap, being doted on by servants and honored guests alike, feeling her mother’s round belly, falling in the Great Hall and opening her knee from top to bottom. Then, a bit later, learning to embroider, learning to play instruments, learning to ride. _Learning to ride poorly,_ he thought, taking in her awkward, slow steps. She seemed well enough, all things considered.

 

            Sandor was enjoying living in someone else’s childhood for a while.

 

            He could get used to it.

 

            There were not many animals around. Rabbits, squirrels, deer that looked too small to be worth the trouble. In a couple more days he would catch something. No need to start a fire until they were further away. Sandor was fine eating anything, and the little bird didn’t eat much.

 

            Night fell slowly, awkwardly. Sandor had somehow managed not to think too much about sleeping next to Sansa Stark at night. His streak of luck ended. She was not tired enough to collapse and sleep instantly, as she had been before, and Sandor never slept instantly. There was space between them, but not nearly enough to keep his mind from wandering. Darkness came lazily. He could not wait to tell the Elder Brother that he had found a true act of penitence.

 

            He woke in the morning harder than the rock his back had found in the night. The joys of nature.

 

            The little bird was curled into a ball on her side, tucked against him. Something stabbed at the back of his mind, or any number of somethings. Guilt, comfort, lust, fear. Sansa-shaped words. Stupid dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your comments last chapter, I read them all (more than once) even if I don't always reply.


	5. Sansa IV

            Sansa had no hope of stopping the words from her mouth once they started. She was Sansa again, with all of Sansa’s memories and feelings. It started with benign things. The forest was so pretty. She felt elated and a little bit insane. She supposed that’s what people felt like when they were suddenly free.

 

            Gods, she could not stop the words if she stuffed her stockings into her mouth. What had happened to her? Less one Littlefinger, then add one former Hound, and Sansa been jolted out of her mummer’s farce so suddenly it made her dizzy. He was the unlikeliest of confidants, and yet...

 

            She trusted him. She had always trusted him, even when he was... undeserving of it. He would not hurt her now.

 

            Her body hummed. She was giddy. She knew, of course, that there were no promises in life, and she should not be excited for anything at all. A thousand problems came into her mind, but would not stay very long. She could die, of course. She could die, or be ushered into something worse. That was much the same: she had not been safe since before her flower bloomed. She would not be safe again until it wilted, she supposed. She worried about Sweetrobin; she regretted leaving him, her own cousin. It made her horrible. But she had not thought much about that when the time came to leave, had she? She had just gone. Petyr, she did not mind leaving behind. She wondered if she ought to have killed him instead.

 

            Sandor listened. He usually didn’t speak unless she asked him something. She didn’t mind—she only hoped he wasn’t annoyed. He did not seem bothered. Sansa thought that she might have seen him smirking, but she wasn’t sure. She could just be imagining things. As she was wont to do.

 

            He never kissed her. She remembered that, now.

 

            He did pin her down and threaten her life. He took a song.

 

            Sansa sized up the man before her, not for the first time in their short journey. She ticked off the things she knew to be true. He was not dead. He had nothing to do with Saltpans. He somehow devised to smuggle her out of the Vale for unknown reasons. He had been gentle with her. He had not been rude or coarse. He showed no signs of anger or violence. There was not even a single drop of wine in all their supplies.

 

            These were truths; facts. Sansa would do well to remember them, and not get carried away with anything else.

 

            But Sansa had never been good at that, had she?

 

            They stopped near a stream. Sandor kept himself busy doing this or that. It seemed to be his habit. There were many things for him to tend to. Sansa wished she were less useless. She did not have a single talent to her name out here in the wilderness. She tried to clear out the larger rocks from where they would put their bedrolls each night, but that was such a small thing. A child could do that. She tried to get him to speak more, but he would not. She had a thousand things to ask him, but she held her tongue. He was not the type of man who should be cornered, physically or otherwise. Yet she wanted to open his mind and see everything inside, all the good and the bad. He was of great interest to her. Most people were disappointing, and got worse over time. Sandor had gotten better.

 

            There had once been an old dog that roamed around inside the walls of Winterfell. He was not one of the dogs from their kennels; he might have even been a stray. He was always growling and hunching down. All the children were frightened of him—frightened that he might bite. The kennelmaster lured him inside one day, and when he came out, he was a different dog. He was happier than even the dogs who could roam in the hall. The kennelmaster sat at the high table at dinner, and told Lord Eddard that the dog was never mad: he only had a rotten tooth.

 

            Sansa wondered where Sandor Clegane had kept all his meanness, and who had yanked it out.

 

            Sansa spoke of her family, blowing the dust from her memories gently and with great care. They had all been precious to her, even Arya. Every last one. Every lost one. It came back to bite her in the night. Darkness fell, and she remembered that her family was dead. She was Sansa again, and Sansa grieved.

 

            She gave herself a headache holding in the tears. She could not cry, would not. In some pitch-black hour, Sandor fell asleep. His breaths were deep and heavy. It made her miss the direwolves. It made her feel more alone.

 

            She woke up on her side, with Sandor behind her. He cursed and muttered something, and started to stir. Sansa flipped over, flung her arm over his chest, felt ridiculously small in doing so, felt ridiculous in doing so. _Sansa Stark, what has gotten into you?_ He was still. She looked up and his eyes were dull storms, confused and churning. She laid her head down, slowly, not meaning to spook him, and prayed he would not move. But he did.

 

            The tears came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the past and future gaps between updates! I started a new job and a new semester, and I guess I thought it was a great time to start a new fanfic... Logic...


	6. Sandor II

            Sandor thought he’d wander out into the forest a ways under the pretense of catching something to eat. Get it over with before she even woke up, so he could have some peace. In all the time he had spent thinking about this exact situation, he had never actually _thought_ about it. He hadn’t thought about how she’d be even more beautiful now, how he’d be close enough to smell her. How it might have actually been years since he had a woman—he couldn’t remember. It wasn’t important. None of it was, because she wasn’t his to touch. Not in a thousand years.

 

            He was hers to touch, apparently.

 

            She rolled over and pinned him with her little arm. As laughable as it was, he couldn’t move. He looked at her looking at him. Her eyes were so blue, and the shock of them made him miss her hair even more. She laid her head down on his chest, slow and careful. Why would she do that? Did she think she was _supposed to_ , now that he’d taken her away from Littlefinger? Sandor gritted his teeth, trying to hold back something harsh. He told himself he wouldn’t do that anymore if he ever saw her again. He just got up and went away.

 

            He did wander out into the forest. He did set up a couple traps, instead of what he was going to do in the first place. Felt too bad, after leaving her there.

 

            When he came back, her eyes were all red, and she was trying to wipe at her face with the shoulder part of her dress. It was probably the cleanest part. He got a clean scarf out of his saddlebag and handed it to her. He didn’t need it out there, anyway. Nobody around.

 

            “Thank you,” she said. And her voice was far away. Sandor didn’t like it when she sounded small.

 

            “Little bird—”

 

            “Beg pardon,” she said, looking up at him. “I should not have done that.”

 

            “It’s all right,” he shrugged. He still didn’t know what it was about, but she shouldn’t feel bad about it. She shouldn’t feel bad about anything. That was Sandor’s place. She looked like she was going to cry again, though. He sat down across from her, started building a fire. Kept looking at her bloody crying. “What’s wrong with you, girl?” She jumped, like he scared her. Stupid dog.

 

            “I—I am not—” she said eventually, putting her palms over her eyes. “Everything in my mind is running together, and I don’t know what to do or say. And my family is dead, all of them. I was trying to forget, I think...”

 

            Sandor knew about that.

 

            He built the fire up for a while. Not too big, just big enough to be warm. He told her if she wanted to wash up, he would go away, and she could whistle when she was done and he would come back. So he wandered again, and checked the traps. The little bird was right about the forest. It had a lot of colors and things she would like. Then she whistled, and he went back.

 

            She was sitting on a big rock by the fire, combing her fingers through her hair. She had a different dress on, another dark brown one. She seemed better.

 

            “Nothing yet, but I can check again tomorrow before we leave,” he mumbled. She made him embarrassed about everything.

 

            “That’s all right,” she said, smiling. “We have plenty of food left.”

 

            Sandor worried that they weren’t far enough away to be taking a day of rest. Went through the plans again. Told himself all the reasons that nobody would come looking. Even if someone did come looking, this was mountainous forest, and a large group would be slow. The little bird would be safe.

 

            His thoughts kept going dark. He would think about what Joffrey had done to her, in front of all the court. What the imp must have done to her. What he himself did to her. The way Petyr Baelish betrayed her father, and what he must have done to her. And she was right: her whole family was dead. She had loved them. None of them had ever hurt her, so it wasn’t the same as him. Sandor couldn’t figure out why she touched him when she woke up, or what he was supposed to do for her. She had to be all twisted up. For the first time in a long time, he wished for some wine.

 

            They set up their bedrolls again; they waited for the night to arrive. The fire slowly died. It would be too cold to sleep without a fire soon. Sandor hoped they would be at the Quiet Isle before then.

 

            It was dark. He didn’t know if she was asleep or not, but he guessed that she wasn’t. He laid there chewing on his words for a long time. He didn’t even know what to _call_ her. “Sansa,” he said, and it felt good in his mouth. “You don’t have to be afraid of me anymore. I remember what I did, and it was wrong. I was just as bad as the rest of them. But I won’t hurt you now. You hear me, girl?” She was silent. “And you don’t have to do anything for me because I took you. I’m the one with a debt to pay, not you. I’ll keep you safe. When winter’s over, I’ll take you home.” He couldn’t see her face in the dark. He hated the sound of his voice, scraping up against the quiet.

 

            For a while, he thought she was asleep, and he was just a halfwit muttering to the rabbits and owls. He felt cool air; a little tug. She took his massive hand. Her skin felt like silk. Sandor didn’t move.


	7. Sansa V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some very brief and vague mentions of past abuse, here.

            Sansa could trust him. She knew that she could. After what he said, she believed it even more. He had not pulled away from her to hurt her, and he did not take advantage of her, though he certainly could have. Lesser men had taken more.

            Sansa could only imagine what he had thought. She didn’t even know why she had done it—she only found herself touching him sometimes without thinking first, as though he were a dog. She had actually _whistled_ for him the day before, and she still felt awful about it. He had told her to, but still—it was not kind. She vowed to do better. He was not the Hound, just as she was not Alayne.

 

            She had held his hand, and he had let her. She had fallen asleep like that. It was childish, but it had been so nice.

 

            Days passed, and Sansa was content. Sandor caught a rabbit here and there: all the bigger animals in this forest were predators, and best avoided. There was no reason to hurry; picking their way around the boulders and stones went slowly, anyway. Sandor never seemed to get lost. When she asked him, he said he spent a lot of time outdoors when he was a boy. She did not need to ask why.

 

            There were many hours in a day, and all of them could not be filled with words. To distract from her own sadness, she pondered his. It did not feel as bad that way. In the waking hours, at least.

 

            Lately, she had been dreaming of the story of his scars the way he had told it to her years ago. She would see a child’s hands playing with a wooden knight, would see those same hands shaking even as they played. A hulking shadow would appear, and Sansa would know what she was going to _hurt._ The shadow always laughed while she screamed.

 

            Sometimes, she would wake after the dream ended, and get the oddest feeling that Sandor had woken up, too.

 

            She hoped that she hadn’t been making noises, but she started falling asleep with her hand over her mouth, just in case.

 

            The Quiet Isle loomed before her, darkening her mood. She did not know much of it—Sandor only told her that she would be safe and well taken care of, and that he would not leave. That was enough for her, in truth, but Sansa was still a fanciful thing at times. She knew that she would rather camp in the forest with a man who was not a knight than step one foot back into a world of titles and honors and lies. The force of that realization stopped her breath. Perhaps she would have time to rest on the Isle, and she would feel differently, in time. Then again, perhaps she would not. A vision of stepping into yet another name and life briefly flashed before her—an option, yes. A last resort.

 

            Winterfell, her home, lay in ruins. Where would he take her in spring? _Anywhere I want to go,_ she answered herself, without thinking.

 

            “We’ll be heading straight to the Isle from here, little bird,” he rasped over the fire one evening. With a heavy heart, Sansa ate the last apple. She looked around, taking in the dark outlines of trees, the horses she had come to love, her quiet companion. She thought vaguely that it would be unwelcome to see him in the brown robes again—it made her somewhat sad, though she could not say why.

 

            “Is the Isle... _prepared_ for a lady visitor?” she asked.

 

            “Unless someone wants to lose a bloody arm, it is.”

 

            He froze in place after realizing what he had said, but Sansa was already laughing. He smiled—she could tell that, now. It was different from when he grinned to scare somebody. He smiled with his mouth closed. It was absurd, but it made him seem almost shy, especially when he had his hair hanging in his face, which was almost always. Sansa liked it very much.

 

            It had been a long time since someone had surprised her in a good way.

 

            “Can I keep my horse?” she asked later, too preoccupied to sleep.

 

            “Don’t see why not. They let me keep Stranger. Yours won’t be any trouble at all, compared to the likes of him.”

 

            “You still have Stranger?”

 

            “You remember?”

 

            “ _Of course_ I do!” she exclaimed. She remembered most things, and then some.

 

            When he laughed, it sounded like the rumble before a thunderclap. The moss was soft beneath her bedroll; the night was deep; the body beside her kept her warm. Sansa felt the urge to reach for him, as she often did, but just because he _let_ her sometimes didn’t mean she _should._ She had learned that from Littlefinger.

 

            The next morning, Sansa held back tears as Sandor lifted her onto her horse. She was afraid. After all she had been through, part of her did not want to see what the future held. It could not be undone once it happened: spilt milk could not be unspilled. Time had been still for days, but now it would fly. She tried to get herself drunk on the idea of a warm meal, a warm bath, a roof over her head. The images would not stay. They fluttered away like dusty autumn leaves. A person could have all those things, and still think of jumping from high places. A person could be so alone.

 

            The wind was cooler; it lifted her hair and whispered against her neck that winter was coming.


	8. Sansa VI

            The way to the Quiet Isle was undisturbed. Though they eventually left the sparse, jagged forest and wandered down a well-worn road, the way was clear and solitary. It made the journey dreamlike, unreal. Sansa expected at any moment to hear hooves beating the ground, men shouting, dogs barking—yet none ever came. The half-shiver, cold-breath tingle lingered on her neck. She could not be safe. Not ever.

           

            Sandor lapsed into silence. She watched his eyes, constantly searching, casting across the desolate landscape for any sign of danger. He was vigilant, watchful. Sansa tried to avoid thinking of him as doglike, but the similarities remained. He would likely take it as a compliment if she ever told him.

 

            Doglike. Sansa promised to herself never to mistreat him as others had. She was alone in the world, without family or fortune or future, but that much she could accomplish—that much she could offer in return. The old Sansa stirred within her when she thought about such things as kindness and songs.

 

            He watched her, too. No quirk of her lips or arch of her brow escaped his notice. She could see his mind at work behind each and every word he spoke to her. The basic decency of it almost brought her to tears more than once. He was much changed from the man who snarled at her drunkenly, releasing a litany of spite and hurt, hot like a summer gust.

 

            Sansa caught herself before she wished for the days when he spoke to her without needing convincing. This was better for him. She would simply have to be patient—perhaps he would speak more, in time. Perhaps they would be isle-bound for an entire winter: years, decades. Sansa waited for the thump of fear in her chest at that thought; none came.

 

            A marsh-like expanse stretched before them.

 

            “I’m going to walk the horses across,” he said, after tying her animal to his. “It won’t take as long as it looks. You don’t have to do anything but sit there. If it scares you, just look up instead of down.”

 

            Sansa was wary of the sand flats, but trusted her guide. She was more wary of what awaited them on the land—a gathering of men, none of them known. Anyone could be anyone. Gone were the days of blindly trusting strangers.

 

            “Little bird,” he rasped, scattering her thoughts. “No one here will hurt you. You think I’d bring you just anywhere, girl?”

 

            “I trust you,” she replied. It held a warning, a plea. _Do not forfeit my trust._

            Sandor picked across the murky, mottled stretch of water and sand. Sansa did look up, when he began wading through ankle-deep water seemingly without care. There were limits to her bravery, and besides, the sky was a brilliant blue that reminded her of her mother’s eyes.

 

            Strong hands lifted her from her horse. The ground below her was silty; it sucked at her boots for a moment before she gained her balance. The healer from the Eyrie—the Elder Brother—stood before her, hands clasped within his brown, roughspun sleeves. He was a man who looked at ease in many places, Sansa noted.

 

            “Sansa of House Stark,” he said, “You are welcome here, and your safety and comfort will be our only concern.” Sansa started at the announcement of her true name, her true person. She hated herself for it.

 

            “I thank you, Elder Brother, for your hospitality and for the effort it took to bring me here. I hope my stay will not be a burden upon you or your order.”

 

            The Elder Brother smiled kindly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. She chanced a look at Sandor, who wore the slightest of smirks. _Pretty little talking bird._

 

            To her dismay, Sandor was soon off with the horses. Sansa was shown to a gathering of small huts. They somehow reminded her of honeybees. Women and children would stay here at times, the Elder Brother explained. Sansa thought of the reasons a woman might need to stay in a place like this, and felt a pang of sadness for any past and future inhabitants. Life was not a song; it held such sorrow. Highborn maids, lowly bastards, scarred little boys with fire dreams—all suffered.

 

            The door creaked slightly on its hinges. The room before her was blessedly simple and soothing—a low, wide cot for sleeping, a straw mattress, a table, two chairs, a hearth. There were shelves with a few books, a basket with what looked like sewing supplies, several blankets and a large fur flung over the foot of the bed. Sansa chided herself for being so morose just moments before. She was tired, body and soul, and she would be glad to rest here for a time.

 

            “Is your comfort well accounted for, my lady?” said the Elder Brother, a twinkle in his eye.

 

            “Oh, yes, I will be most happy here,” Sansa said, and meant it.

 

            “If there is anything else you might require, do not hesitate to ask myself or any other man you see. Most of our brothers will not be able to speak to you, but they will bring you what you need...With haste, if they are fond of their good health.” He stood before her as though waiting for her to laugh at a joke, but she did not quite understand what was funny. She smiled. “Shall we sit?” the Elder Brother asked, gesturing to the plain table and chairs.

 

            “I beg your pardon, Elder Brother, but I have only just realized how very tired I am. I would enjoy speaking with you this evening, if your duties permit.”

 

            “Of course,” he said, immediately placing himself closer to the door. “Someone will escort you to the evening meal. Until then, Lady Sansa.” He took his leave, settling the door gently in the frame as he went.

 

            It was not lost upon her that she had not feared refusing him. It was not lost upon her that he left when he was asked to. These were good omens.

 

            Sansa removed her boots and crawled into bed. No feather mattress had ever been so plush; no embroidered covers so fine as the wool and fur that embraced her. She frowned at the splay of dark hair across her pillow, for it seemed more wrong than it had ever been. She resolved to ask for a bath. She would scrub Petyr’s scheming out of her hair, off of her skin. When she breathed in, she smelled wood and the faintest hint of lavender—a great expense to sprinkle upon the pillow of a runaway. Sansa drifted, and wondered if the Isle had yet to run out of lemons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am just... a bit floored but very happy that there has been such a positive response so far, especially from my "regulars" from TWW... It's just a nice feeling. You guys are awesome. Thanks for reading!


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